An Instrument of Fate
by queenofowls
Summary: A shield has no heart, no will, no desire. But if that shield just happens to be a man... sometimes things are not so clear cut. [Dedue/f!Byleth] Cover Art by: @tsuyuus [Twitter]


Dedue is not a romantic man. In fact, when it comes to the eb and flow of his heart, he is remarkably good at ignoring it completely. Oh, in the past, there were students who tried, giggling and prodding to approach him from time to time, but it has been all too easy to play the fool.

For those not so easily deceived that he is oblivious to matters of love, stronger measures must be taken.

A stern glance, a set mouth, and once, for a student who to this day stares longly at him whenever he passes by, a gentle pat on the head... all coupled with a rigid pronouncement so inflexible, it is almost holy; _you should never associate with a man of Duscur._

In all honesty, it is not that his heart is immune to all advancements. The simple truth is that Dedue is simply not meant for love. A metal shield has neither affections nor affiliations aside from the arm that it is strapped to.

_And just as well_, he thinks, as more than a few view him merely as the road to the prince. Dedue is all too willing to protect his liege from such small-minded persons who, with such shallow reasons to approach, would only drown in the black, poisonous sea that is Dimitri's revenge thirsty heart.

No. The both of them are only good for war, he knows, and Dimitri's heart has no space for else but revenge. _His_ heart, however...

"On your left, Dedue!" Byleth's voice is sharp and clear, shaking him from the haze of blurred thoughts and he raises his arm just in time to hear his shield clang against blade, sending an uncomfortable vibration down his shoulder. He grimaces, takes his stance and strikes quickly, watching as another body joins the blood spattered dirt. _The birds will eat well tonight_. It's a morbid place for morbid thoughts.

It is not the place for love, he knows, and he is not the man for it. And yet...

"Units, to me! Viper formation! I need it tight and I need it now!" Dedue obeys Byleth automatically, facing outward. Any moment now and the lancers would come to form the rest of the barrier. He looks towards the professor's voice. _A shield could not feel love_, he tells himself again, like a firm mantra. _And yet..._

Her undisturbed face is streaked with dirt and blood in the midst of it all. _Deliverer of Fate_, they call her, namely for the expressionless, indiscriminate way she strikes down her foes. At the end of Byleth's blade, there is only unavoidable death, unavoidable destiny, and he is glad that she is his ally. He would kill her if he must, but he is immensely pleased that she too is unified in his desire to protect Dimitri. He is just as pleased to kill _for_ her if it meant...

He dodges the thought and puts the displeasure of its existence into his axe hand, striking down with more ferocity.

_A shield does not feel love._

Under her faithful watch, he knows that his lord is safe. His eyes search through the smoke and flames and chaos to see Byleth dancing with her blade as though it is an extension of herself. Even on the battlefield, fate stays in step with her and refuses to let her die. He falls into a crouch, searching the terrain for more bandits. An intrusive thought creeps into his mind.

If he is one able to aid her into victory... would he then be an instrument of fate as well? He wonders. Perhaps in this way, they can be one. As an instrument, an extension of herself... he would be okay. To split his fealty into two is not possible... but, he reasons, a shield is useful to whomever wields it, regardless of the insignia it bears.

He muses over it long after the battle is complete, and in fact, Dimitri, in his strange attentive way, has asked more than once if he is alright.

_"You seem distracted lately, Dedue. If you have words to express, I would be glad to hear them." Dedue shakes his head._

_"The last battle went well. Neither of us have sustained any injuries. There is nothing to report."_

_A stiff, familar chuckle squeezes its way out from between Dimitri's lips. "Dedue, certainly you are aware that I am not asking as your liege, but as your friend?"_

Dedue has tried to explain it to Dimitri time and time again. He is certain that he is no more capable of having friends than a javelin is of having a favorite wielder.

A tool is a tool. A weapon is a weapon. A vow is a vow.

And besides, how can he explain to Dimitri the feelings he holds for their professor that he himself does not dare name?

The quiet unsteadiness in his usually firm hands when she enters the greenhouse while he is gardening.

The lightness in his bones when she commends him on the training ground, and when she demonstrates how he can improve.

The puzzling, yet thankfully brief shortness of his breath when she sometimes makes eye contact during a lecture, giving him the strange feeling that she is speaking to him alone...

Why is his heart determined to split in two?

"Dedue." The professor's voice cuts into his thoughts without even changing the volume. She stares up at him. Glowers, actually. He hadn't seen her approach at all, so lost in thought he is. "I warned you about being reckless for Prince Dimitri's sake. I placed him in a defense triad with Ashe, Annette and _two_ battalions of archers, and yet again, I saw you out there today being _what?_"

He straightens his back. "Being distracted."

"_Being distracted._ Do not let your vow to Dimitri outweigh your duties to yourself."

His eyes narrow. Such talk... perhaps to others it would be inspiring but he finds it almost offensive. Dedue's voice is hard.

"With utmost respect, I _have _no duties to myself, Professor. If the prince were to be in harms way, I will place myself in the direct path. I am willing to die for him if need be."

"And then the next time? When he needs you again?" Her voice is soft, yet it pierces him as though she is shouting. He's overcome with the urge to avoid her gaze. "You can only die once, Dedue."

Dedue considers her words, weighing them in his mind. Finally, he bows, hesitantly.

"I... see, then. A steel shield damaged beyond repair is no better than a pot lid whole." He nods slightly, quickly. "As usual, I have much to learn, professor. I will take more care."

The professor stares at him with a cool, unreadable expression.

"You are an admirable man, Dedue. There is no student in Blue Lions with a fiercer loyalty in his heart to his Highness. You have much value to your housemates, and... as your professor, much value to... to me. If you were to be cut down..." She reaches out with a single hand and his heart actually stops, or perhaps it quickens so intensely that he can no longer feel it, he isn't certain. Nor is he sure where she plans on touching him, but she quickly drops her hand, a flicker of surprise crossing her face. "Oh! I... excuse me." She takes a step back, then another. If he's not mistaken, he would say that her retreating figure is fleeing.

As is the only appropriate course of action in the presence of a man of Duscur.

Yet... he is certain that isn't the reason why. They aren't exactly mere comrades. That would be much too cold to describe the... something he felt, this as yet indescribable thing. Dedue brings his hand to cover the muscle thrumming noisily within his chest. He can still feel it through the fabric of his uniform, perhaps because in the fringes of his mind, he is imagining her skin meeting his.

It would be impossible now to tell her that his distraction on the battlefield was not at all because of Dimitri. If she had asked him why instead of assuming... what could he say? _I was distracted by matters of the heart. Matters that pertain to you, professor._ The phrase is startling. Warming. Uncomfortable. He pulls his hand away from his chest, staring down at it, puzzled.

He is wary of such thoughts. They are the true distractions, after all, and yet...

_"...You have much value to me..."_

It is exactly as he wishes. For her to value him, to make use of him as an instrument of fate. But... as he imagines being touched by her light hands, it is not the benign image of a warrior lifting her shield for battle.

No...

His face inexplicably heats up. No. That is not the only way he wishes to be touched by those hands. Deeply, sincerely, he wishes she had not said "as a professor".

Dedue folds his arms, contemplating.

A shield cannot love... but if that shield is a man, and if that man has a heart, and if that heart is close to bursting... then, perhaps, he could be the first.


End file.
